Masked
by TomParis7
Summary: It has been three years without one another. But now, they shall meet again, not quite seeing one another, but wanting so desperately to do so. They are MASKED from the truth. (Summary's are hard, don't judge) but ENJOY! Some Angst, some Humor, some Fluff.


_**I DO NOT own any Sherlock Characters. BBC and Connan Doyle have the rights. :) **_

_Please enjoy this piece. I had a ton of fun writing it, I hope you have even more fun reading it! _

_**Masked**_

The moon hung low over the city, reflecting onto the Cardiff Bay and casting an eerie light on the shining dome of Roald Dahl Plass. A low fog clung to the streets, only dispersing when people walked through it. The moon seemed to look upon the streets, watching the restless of the night roll by.

One street in particular sat still. Not a car nor pair of feet passed across it. The street was dark; no lights filled the windows, no warm glow from a street lamp, just stillness, as though a blanket had been placed over the road, encasing it in darkness. It lay still, not the kind of calm still, but one of tense stagnant that made a tingle crawl up the spine.

The silence was shattered in an instant by a cracking sound somewhere near by, followed by a sharp cry. A man lay in the alley, his form twitching in pain. Another figure ran forward from the opposing end of the passage, hollering. The running man collapsed beside the man and looked upon him. His face was half concealed in a mask. The injured man was mumbling incoherent words, sounding like a plea. Slowly, hands trembling, the man removed the others mask, to revel the face beneath.

**12 Hours Earlier:**

"John dear, would you please call Inspector Lestrade, he's worried that you're not returning his calls."

John Watson hugged his mug and stared blankly out the window. Mrs. Hudson's voice softened and her hand grasped John's. He looked around, eyes distant.

"Please. Lestrade is worried sick."

John sighed, "alright yeah." The doctor heaved himself out of the chair, cane in one hand, mug in the other. John dialed Lestrade's and he picked up on the first ring.

"John!" Came Greg Lestrade's relieved voice. John grimaced and held the receiver slightly away from his ear as the Inspector rattled on.

"I'm glad you called mate, how are you?"

"I'm fine." John lied.

"Like hell you are." Lestrade's voice dropped, "I know what today is."

"Good. You've finally learned the days of the week." John snapped back.

However, John knew too. Today, January 15th, three years ago- Sherlock died. John shook himself and found that Lestrade was talking again.

"So why don't you and I go out for a pint. Because hell I have some things to tell you and it will be good to get out and about. Maybe we could take the train down to Leadworth or Cardiff. A little scene change, what do you say?"

John sighed audibly but knew Lestrade wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. John said he'd go and would meet him in an hour. Ending the call, John made his slow process up the stairs to his room.

By midday, John and Lestrade were on the tube, speeding towards Paddington Station. From there, they boarded a train to Cardiff. Lestrade was chatting about this or that John didn't really know what, for his mind began to wander…

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock's voice croaked.

"Sher-whatareyou?"

"This is my note. That's what people do don't they? Leave a note?" Sherlock voice was filled with desperation.

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye John"

John seemed to be frozen in that moment, his neck craned to see the tiny form of his flatmate, silhouetted against the pale open sky. His arms stretching out as though he was going to fly. Be he fell, arms grasping at empty air frantically. John watched his body fall, over and over like a broken record, all the while unaware that Lestrade was shaking his shoulder and calling his name.

"Come on mate! Snap out of it John." Lestrade grabbed his shoulder and people on the train began to throw them looks. John was still frozen in his seat, lost in his thoughts, ignorant to his surroundings. Lestrade cursed under his breath. "Dammit John not again." Lestrade sighed and leaned back in his seat. He continued to throw his friend concerned looks, occasionally calling his name. An hour passed, but John still didn't move.

His mobile rang. "DI Lestrade."

"Must you always answer so formally?" Cooed a small voice.

"Mycroft." Lestrade smiled despite himself, "Honey I think we have a problem with John again."

"What is it?"

Lestrade glanced at John's unmoving form and lowered his voice, "He's in a bad way. We were headed to Cardiff for the plans, you know… when he just faded. And now he is just sitting there… I guess this year really got to him."

Mycroft hummed on the other end, "My brother is a fool…" Mycroft muttered. Lestrade scoffed. "Tell me about it, still not showing his face… anyway, do you have everything?" Lestrade changed the subject.

"For tonight? I do." Mycroft simpered, "have you told him yet?"

Lestrade shook his head, "didn't get a chance before he… well I'll try to snap him out of it."

"See that you do." Mycroft chided.

"Hey, you don't get to order me around." Lestrade said in a fake hurt tone.

"Only in the bedroom." Mycroft whispered. Lestrade chuckled as Mycroft added, "I'll see you tonight my dearest."

Lestrade looked around to see John staring out of the window, eyes sad and unfocused.

"John?" Lestrade asked, his tone gentle as though he was around someone very sick.

"Hum?"

"Oh thank god. I thought we'd have to call Harry again." Lestrade breathed out a sigh of relief.

"It was that bad?" John asked, looking only mildly concerned.

"You weren't responding. I was worried."

"I'm alright." John lied again. He wasn't but he was alive; for the time being that was enough. "So." John coughed, clearing his head. "What are we going to do today?"

Lestrade shrugged, "Whatever you want I suppose. Oh and John-?"

"Hum?"

"I have a favor to ask of you."

••••

"You want to do what now? Shirley you can't be serious?"

"I am serious, but don't get head of yourself, John. It's just a dance."

"Just a- just a- Lestrade! This is the reason you wanted me in Cardiff today?"

"Well…" Lestrade looked like an innocent puppy.

"TO GO TO A BLOODY DANCE?"

"It's a party. Mycroft's hosting and _everyone _is coming."

"Oh _Mycroft's hosting. _You should have told me that from the start, where do I sign up? I'm reeling to go to something that the bloody prick is hosting!" John's voice was dripping with sarcasm

"Now you're not being very fair John. Once you get to know him-"

"I don't want to get to know him Greg! If you hadn't noticed, he and I aren't the best of pals since he _sold Sherlock out to Morarity!" _John's temper was rising, soon to boil over. Lestrade ran his hands through graying hair.

"Find. You don't have to go, I'm not forcing you."

"Damn right you aren't-"

"But _John._ Give it a _chance!_"

John and Lestrade looked at one another for a moment before John groaned, "Oh alright."

"Yes! Just you wait John, maybe this dance will be the new beginning of you!"

John snorted and rolled his eyes, the train coming to a halt.

••••

"I look bloody ridiculous." John stood facing a mirror, a short man in a black tux looking back at him.

"You look sharp." Lestrade strolled forward, wearing a grey suite accompanied by a blue tie.

"Where in the hell did you get these Greg?" John asked, plucking at the sleve of his own tux. Lestrade coughed but shrugged, "I have my ways. Here-" Lestrade strode forward with a pices of green fabric clutched in his hand.

"What's this?"

"Your tie. Mycroft picked it out for you and-"

"No." John said flatly, ignoring Lestrade's outstretched hand. "I'm not wearing anything that Mycroft picked for me." John spat.

"But John-" Lestrade wined, why was he being so difficult.

"Who chooses a bloody green tie?"

••••

"_Green_? You suggested a _green tie… _for me? You are aware that my eyes are blue, aren't you Mycroft?"

"_Yes Sherlock. _I am aware. But your eyes are also green."

"Not a forest green! This is so stupid Mycroft!"

"It's for a case. You must look the part."

"Do you know how long I have been _stuck _in Cardiff? A year."

"And one more night will not harm you I promise."

"Well I am certainly not wearing the tie. Ties are for insecure men who need to be restrained. I will wear what I see fit." Sherlock growled, pacing around a small run-down flat.

"It is not _my fault_ that you are on the run Sherlock. No need to take out your frustrations on me."

Sherlock tiled his head to one side, putting on a mocking tone, "Really brother? Because I do recall _someone _in the British Government selling my name to a criminal named Morarity. But _of course _that wasn't saint Mycroft. He would never sell out his brother. Oh wait… you did."

There was a sharp rapping on the door and Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and opened it. A package was waiting for him.

"I presume this is the package you sent?" Sherlock said into the mobile.

"I had it mailed priority shipping. Now, a few details I must remind you of. This is a _government _case of utmost importance. You must-"

"Stay sharp and at wits end. Yes do me a favor and save the speech. The case file is in here I see. And yes brother, I have been tracking him for three years, I know his MO." Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. "Now good day."

Sherlock ended the call and threw his phone on his small lilo. He then popped open the lid of the box and looked inside. Atop the rest sat a manila case file titled: Sebastian Moran. Sherlock would never admit it to anyone but the name gave him chills.

He had been tracking Moran for nearly three years, since this fiasco began and the sniper was the one criminal that stood in the way of his return to Baker Street.

Moran was cruel and had already made 2 attempts on John's life. In which Sherlock had stopped, one bullet at a time, Sherlock tracked him down. Forcing him to live in rent-a-day flats and hardly any sleep. Sherlock didn't mind. As long as John was safe, there was nothing else to discuss.

Sherlock set the file aside and then glanced at the other contents inside the box. He pulled out a black fabric to reveal as think black overcoat and a dark blue fabric that buttoned into a silky material of an undershirt. Inside sat a green tie. Sherlock scoffed and opened the nearest window. Noises filtered in, the sound of cars rumbling by and a distant siren. Sherlock took the tie and chucked it out of the open window. Smirking, he crossed to his lilo and plucked his mobile up and rattled off a text to his brother.

_The hideous green tie now belongs to the streets of Cardiff. I hope they enjoy my little present. _

_ -SH_

Sherlock jabbed the send button and then turned to the box once more. There was a singular object remaining in the box. Sherlock lifted it slowly and deliberately to eye level.

••••

"He can't actually think I am going to wear this…"

"Don't forget the best part!" Lestrade called from the room adjacent.

"What now?" John asked, throwing the green tie into the sink and dowsing it in water.

Lestrade strode around the corner and held up a gold half mask. John turned and stopped dead.

"What's this?"

"It's for the party." Lestrade grinned at the look on his face.

"For the…. What?"

"It's a masquerade ball, didn't I mention that?" Lestrade asked, still beaming.

John was fuming. "No. You did not."

"Ooops, well better put this on. You know the rules, your face can't be seen. You can't go in there without your mask." Lestrade held it in front of Johns face. John squinted and pursed his lips, but he snatched the mask from Lestrade's hand.

"At least you didn't choose one with glitter and all that rubbish." John said. "But before I put this on, _I'm _going to go buy a real tie." John grabbed his jacket from the hook and departed from the flat. Lestrade smiled to himself as the door closed and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"Greg?" Mycroft answered, "How is our dear John doing?"

"He hated the tie. Like I told you he would."

"Sherlock as well." Mycroft murmured. "Oh well, as long as they both get here."

"Yeah. So this whole, 'Sniper on the loose.' Thing is just a gag? Don't you think that's a bit harsh?"

"Not at all Gregory. Sherlock is going mad without his blogger and as per your reports so is John without his detective. We must put an end to this it has gone on too long."

"And you think it's safe?"

"Yes. My secret service will handle Moran." Mycroft said airily.

Lestrade nodded, "What ever you say. Oh and I forgot to mention about the whole mask thing to John. He went ballistic." Lestrade giggled. Mycroft chuckled lightly, I did not tell my dear brother what kind of mask I was sending him. But I think it's quite fitting for his personality. And John should enjoy it." Lestrade could practically hear his boyfriends smirk across the phone line.

"Oh that would be my dear brother calling on the other line. We'll be in touch soon Gregory." Mycroft ended the call and then answered Sherlock's.

"_Feathers?" _

"Hello to you too Sherlock." Mycroft simpered.

"Don't you play coy with me Mycroft." Sherlock spat. "_Feathers? _Do I look like a man who would want _feathers _on their mask? No. I told you to get black, plain and simple. No golden swirl along the edges and certainly _no feathers." _Sherlock's tone was dripping with distaste but Mycroft merely said,

"I am sorry my dear. But I can not change it now. It looks like you will just have to wear it, saying as the ball in less then an hour away. Besides, it is not as though you will be seeing anyone you _care about_, now will you? It is just for a case. Simply in and out. That is all."

"You will not be the end of this Mycroft." Sherlock then hung up on him. He peered closer at the mask, considering throwing that out the window as well. But no. His identity needed to be hidden, and a masquerade was the best place for it. His change in hair color would not be enough to disguise him. So the mask must do. Sherlock changed quickly and pocketed the mask and then locked up his flat. Not risking a cab during rush hour, The detective took the tube. His flat was in Birchgrove, so Sherlock took the tube to Cardiff Central.

The ball was to be held at The Cardiff Opera Binasi, a very posh place next to the Warf. The sun was just beginning set over the bay, casting a glittering glow across the water and the Roald Dahl Plass shone off a blinding reflection. Sherlock stepped off the tube and straightened his buttoned collar. He brushed himself off and then headed down the path toward the tall brown building. Others were already arriving, wearing glittering dresses accompanied by masks of all color. The detective sighed and took out his mask, glancing at its golden spiral patterns before slipping it onto his face. Brushing the feather out of his brown curly hair, Sherlock sighed and set off down the street.

••••

Parties were arriving from all over the United Kingdom. Lestrade was pointing them out as the cab pulled up.

"That there is the board of directors in Ireland." Lestrade pointed to a man wearing a dark tux and a bright yellow mask.

"And look at that-" Lestrade gasped, "That is the Prime Minister of Whales! Mr. Cameron!" Lestrade jumped out of the car, putting on his silver mask and running to catch up with him. John sighed, paid the fair, and got out of the car grumbling. He uncomfortably adjusted his mask. "I can't bloody see in these things!" John mumbled and strode forward, slowly being engulfed by the crowd of people. He entered the hall and passed the entrance hall into the ballroom. The room was fairly large and lined with white lights and small individual tables, covered in a white cloth. There was a live orchestra playing instruments of all sizes, they too were wearing masks.

John puffed out his cheeks pull of air and stepped into the hall, bumping into many people along the way. He was halfway across the room, headed towards the nearest table when he heard a voice from behind.

"John? Is that you under there?" John turned to see the slightly tall form of Mycroft Holmes. He wore a black suite with a red tie accompanied by a red mask with black spirals around the edges.

"Yes hello." John said squarely, feeling utterly ridiculous squinting around the place just to see. He adjusted his mask again

"I see you didn't like my tie." Mycroft smirked.

"No. A bow tie is much cooler." John said, adjusting his slightly.

Mycroft gestured around saying, "how do you like it? I put it all together myself." Mycroft twirled his umbrella proudly.

"It's um… nice I guess. At bit weird, but they seem to be enjoying themselves." John nodded to a group of women in the middle of the dance floor, kicking their feet and shrieking with delight.

"Mmmm yes." Mycroft was looking to the entrance, not quite listening.

"You expecting someone? Greg is already here, he came with me-"

"I must dash." Mycroft mumbled, almost to himself, he strode off, umbrella trailing behind him.

••••

"Ah good, you're here."

"You knew it was me then?" Sherlock asked.

"You are my bother, of course I knew it was you. However, I believe _others _here will not. You mustn't tell anyone your real name."

"Quit teaching me like a child, I know how to handle myself." Sherlock growled.

"Really?" Mycroft asked, eying Sherlock's shirt. "Then unbutton the first two, your at a party dear brother, not a funeral." Mycroft scolded.

Sherlock begrudgingly popped open the first two buttons on his shirt, reveling a smooth neck and jaw line.

"Better." Mycroft said. "I must dash, I believe Greg is somewhere trying to hit it off with the Prime Minister of Wales…"

Sherlock watched his brother disappear through the crowd and sighed. _Now… to business. _

_••••  
_

John sank into a chair. _What a waste of a night. _John thought miserably. At least it distracted him from the date… for a little while. Shaking himself, John leaned back in his chair and sighed, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander- tuning out the swelling band.

_It's just a trick… just a magic trick. _

If only… John thought as Sherlock's words wafted toward him.

"Dammit Sherlock." John muttered, cursing his flatmate. Why did he have to leave John stranded? Stuck at this dammed party, in this dammed town. All John wanted to do was visit Sherlock at the cemetery and let him know that he wasn't alone. But instead he had no will and allowed himself to be dragged along by the whims of _these _people.

"No." John stood up, his leg firing up and he almost fell. He flung out his arms and caught himself of the hem of a shirt collar. John gasped and looked up to the taller man, his face resembling something John had forgotten.

"Oh god I'm sorry." John said, wishing his mask could cover his flushed cheeks.

"No, the fault is mine." The gentleman said. There was something about the voice John couldn't quite place. He shook his head and sighed. "Sorry. Anyway, I was just-" John gestured toward the door but the man grabbed his arm,

"Please… stay."

••••

Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. This man, concealed by a golden mask, sounded oh so familiar. Sherlock's breath seemed to halt in his chest.

Sherlock's arm guided the man's toward the chair once more and he sat. Sherlock sank into a silk covered chair beside him.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, seeing the man blinking those beautifully familiar eyes open and closed.

"Yeah, I just… had a bit of a rough day." He mumbled.

Sherlock nodded, the feather on his mask wobbling slightly.

"Nice um… nice mask." The man said, gesturing to his face. "It's good. Classy. Unlike mine."

Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly. Yours is much more intriguing, not as dull."

The man chuckled slightly.

"What's funny?"

"It's just… I knew someone who used to say that everything was dull… all the time."

Sherlock's fear deepened. He was supposed to be chasing down a sniper, not running into a man who was acting just like John.

"Mmmm." Was all Sherlock could respond.

"You… you um… remind me of him." The man said.

"Really?"

"Except for the wrong hair color." The man said, eyes Sherlock's brown curls.

Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine, but he kept his composure, and asked as casually as he could, "So… what's your name?"

"Oh um John. John Watson." John stuck out his hand for Sherlock to shake.

Sherlock stopped dead, taking in a slight breath. He felt cold and numb and at a loss of what on earth he was supposed to do.

"And what can I call you?" John still had his hand outstretched

"Yes." Sherlock said, shaking his hand and closing his eyes.

"Yes? That's a bit of an odd name." John chuckled.

"I'm sorry no, how rude of me, my name is Sherlock."

John looked taken aback. "Really?"

"Yes, why?" Sherlock feigned ignorance.

"That's um… that's my middle name."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, his heart beating feebly. "How interesting."

"Yeah…" John trailed off looking thoughtful.

"So… you were going to leave. Why?" Sherlock inquired, trying to steady his beating pulse. He began to take in every inch of the man in front of him, from his slumped shoulders, to the way his tux hung loosely around him, giving Sherlock the impression that John was a man who had lost a lot of weight in a short space of time.

"It's…. a long story." John sighed, "It's hard to explain."

"Try me. I do like a mystery."

John chuckled and then his face fell.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh nothing… it's just… I don't think I've laughed in years."

Sherlock felt his heart drop. He hated a cliché, but that was the only way to describe the feeling in his chest. _He _had stopped John's laughing. _He _alone had made John this miserable manic-depressant, with a psychosomatic limp and anxiety with suicidal tendencies. Sherlock breathing became heavy and he tried to smile, but it only came out as a smirk. All he wanted to do was tear off his mask and take John in his arms, telling him he indeed was not alone. But he could not. Not for now at least.

••••

This man… John liked him. He didn't know what it was about him, but he gave John hope. John found himself plucking Campaign from the nearby waiter's tray and Sherlock dug in his pockets and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Damn." Sherlock mumbled, a cig in his mouth, his hands patting his jacket. I left my-"

"Here." John pulled out a lighter, and Sherlock's sea blue eyes widened beneath his mask. "You… you don't seem the smoking type."

John chuckled and shook his head, "No. Not me. It's my friend, Greg. He's somewhere around here." John looked hopelessly around the sea of people to point out Lestrade, but shook of the notion of finding him. "He's always loosing his lighters…"

Sherlock's eyes seemed to clear with relief he then leaned in as John bent forward and cupped one of Sherlock's hands with his own, concealing the flame from the wind. Once the cigarette was lit, John's hand lingered there for a moment. He felt the warmth of the cigarette smoke and the closeness of their faces. Tension seemed to crackle like lightning between the two and Sherlock pulled away so abruptly that John jumped.

"I'm sorry I…" John began.

"No, no. It's… fine. It's not your fault, I…" The man seemed lost for words, even scared. He leaned back and took a long drawl of the smoke. John watched, enchanted by this man in front of him. So like Sherlock, but oh so different. He was rough on the edges, like Sherlock was, but more so, like John wasn't the only one who had been to hell and back. This man, Sherlock, was strong, _unkillable_, funny, and _someone _in John's life. _Someone new. _John smiled lightly and watched Sherlock's strong hand hold the cigarette, like it was his refuge.

"What's happened?" John asked.

"Hum?" He asked, distracted.

"To you… what happened?"

Sherlock smiled bitterly, adjusting his mask ever so slightly.

"Come on. I'd like to know." John insisted.

Sherlock sighed, and leaned somewhat forward in his chair. "It was a long time ago. I don't think he even remembers me now… but I hurt him and then left him. He has no idea where I am although it's right in front of his face. I know what I did to him so I prefer not to come back, because… because I am afraid of what he has become in my absence." He rattled off this information so fast that John was again reminded of a certain dead detective.

"And you think he will be hurt?"

"Yes. Quite. I betrayed him and lied to him."

"And left him?" John asked, his voice cracking.

"Yes." Sherlock replied stonily. "But… I would… I would give him anything to retrieve those years. To simply… _tell_ him that I am sorry and show him that I will never fail him again." He hung his head, showing John the top of his curly head.

"Why did you leave m-him?"

"It is complicated."

"Try me."

Sherlock sighed, "I was trying to protect him."

"And you thought that was a good idea?" John said, suddenly angry.

"We are not talking about me anymore… are we?"

"Yes. We are." John growled.

Sherlock felt his heart beating faster still, _did John know?_

"Why did you leave him?"

"I told you."

"Why?" John stood.

"John-"

"Why?"

"Because I _loved _him!" Sherlock shouted, now on his feet as well.

There was a silence between them, while people all around them danced and sang and drank their wine and talked about petty things. Their eyes were locked.

"Sherlock." John muttered.

"It took you long enough." And Sherlock grabbed John's face, ripping of his mask and he bent down to kiss him. John kissed him back, their lips like sparks of energy. John broke away from his lips and wrapped his arms around the taller man, hugging him tightly. Sherlock felt his body racking with sobs.

"Shhhhh. I've got you now… I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock planted a kiss to the top of John's forehead. Sherlock felt so venerable, hurt, and scared. He detested these raw emotions, but couldn't keep pushing them back. Not now when John was in his arms again.

John hiccupped and loosened his grip around Sherlock. Sherlock held John at arms length and brushed a tear off his cheek, taking in his beautiful face. John's eyes, his lips, his nose, his freckles, his deep circles around his eyes. But most of all, Sherlock was looking at the _real _John Watson. A feat he never believed possible.

"What's gotten into you?" John asked weakly, "I've never seen you so… so emotional."

A slow smile grew on Sherlock's lips. "You haven't been around to keep me in check."

That's when it hit John.

Sherlock was alive.

Standing right in front of him.

Sherlock was not dead.

"YOU PRICK!" John hit Sherlock across the face with all the force of three years behind it. People were starting to stare.

"And, that would be John finding the truth." Mycroft whispered to Lestrade.

Sherlock recoiled but was still smiling.

"YOU THINK THIS IS _FUNNY_?"

"No!" Sherlock yelled, but John already hit him again.

Sherlock winced but held his ground.

"John-"

"THREE." Smack. "BLOODY." Smack. "YEARS!" Smack.

"I know… but John I-"

John was kissing him again, and Sherlock went limp with confusion. Most of the bystanders were pointing. Some were gawking, some just laughing.

Sherlock pushed John to the floor, as a bullet whizzed past them and hit a nearby glass, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

People were screaming and running everywhere. John was stuck under Sherlock's heavy weight.

"Sherlockwhatthe?"

"Run." Sherlock whispered into his ear, grabbing his hand and pulling out a gun, they ducked behind tables and b-lined it to the door.

"WHO THE HELL IS SHOOTING AT US."

"A very dangerous man." Sherlock said, as more bullets zipped over their heads. People were running in all directions as Sherlock and John ran. Sherlock swiveled around and fired off a few shots to the origin of the bullets. They then slipped out of the doorway and into the cool night, where people were pouring out of the entrance. Sherlock pulled John along.

"Oh I've missed this." John laughed, running faster, not stopping till they reached the cover of the shining dome that read: Cardiff Bay Visitor Center. They ran to the back of the building and Sherlock sank down against the wall, John copying him.

"I should have known, dammit!" Sherlock yelled, hitting the hard pavement with the gun.

"Sherlock, who was that?"

"Moran." Sherlock growled. "He wants to kill you and-" Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"Sherlock-?" John looked puzzled, but then looked down and saw a small pool of blood.

"You're bleeding!" John turned sharply.

"I'm fine…" Sherlock winced, shaking slightly.

"Shut up." John growled, and looked for the source of the blood.

"It's just an arm wound, I'm fine. I've had worse, stop fussing." Sherlock said.

"The bullet went clean through your arm Sherlock!" John said, examining the clean hole through his bicep. Sherlock growled in pain but stopped abruptly at the sound of footfalls, quiet and deliberate, growling louder and closer.

"Go." Sherlock yelled.

••••

They were running again. John could feel the blood pumping through his veins, the thrill of adrenalin and his limp dissipating into nothing but a memory. Although they could die, John didn't care, because doing this again- it felt oh so good. They crisscrossed streets, dodging between cars. The two men reached a crossroad and John glanced behind him to see a figure still chasing them, John couldn't pick out his face, for it two was half concealed in mask.

"Go-" Sherlock pushed John away.

"What?"

"He can't chase two of us at once, I'll lead him off, you go and phone my brother."

"I'm not leaving you again."

"Yes you are, I'll be fine, just GO!" Sherlock pushed John away and pointed the gun at him, "Go." Sherlock growled. John saw something flicker in those eyes. They looked cold and dead, the eyes of a killer. John nodded and sprinted in the opposite direction of his flatmate.

He ran fast and swiveling back to go get backup. He had not run but 2 minutes when there was a gunshot and someone yelling. John froze in terror, feeling his systems kick into gear. He ran toward the sound, feeling numb. He turned to corner onto a dark street, in which all the lights were out. The street was completely silent save John's footfalls. John looked wildly around and saw a form down an alley, twitching.

John ran forward, yelling harshly. He fell to his knees in front of the body, John's vision was blurred as the man mumbled incoherently. Hands trembling, John slowly removed the mask.

••••

Sherlock ran down the opposite direction of John, yelling loudly to mask his flat mates footsteps, "Come and get me Moran!"

And sure enough, Moran was following him, gaining on him now and laughing like a mad man. Sherlock however, knew Cardiff well. He slipped into an alley in an almost catlike manor, making Moran correct his footing. Sherlock hoped onto the nearest ladder and lingered there silently.

"Come out come out where ever you are. I brought a little present from Morarity. It's a bullet in your dear John's brain."

No response.

"Come now Sherlock. It's only fair. You kill my lover, I kill yours. Then we're even."

Sherlock slowly climbed the ladder and reached the top of a small post office. He crouched on the building and aimed.

"Perhaps not." Sherlock yelled from the building and squeezed the trigger. Moran let out a sharp cry of pain and collapsed. Sherlock smiled and slowly descended the ladder, but not in time to hear more feet making their track down the alley. It was John, and he was yelling. He went to Moran and for a moment Sherlock was halted in confusion. Then John removed Moran's mask and backed away.

"What…"

"John."

Sherlock had the wind knocked out of him.

John felt relief flooding through him, he ran to Sherlock and hugged him and then started kissing him once more.

"I thought that w-was you." John mumbled, talking between tear-stained kisses and hiccups.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, and this time, he meant it.

John and Sherlock broke apart and Sherlock grabbed his hand.

"I say we take the next train home." Sherlock said, unable to contain a grin on his face.

"I agree." And John found himself running after Sherlock once more. This is what he did. He ran to danger, embraced it with open arms. All for some mad sociopath that he loved and knew. He was always running toward Sherlock, always chasing him, and that didn't bother John one bit.

End.


End file.
